


Interwoven

by chaoticlivi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angels and Demons Have No Genitalia, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Headcanon, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Nudity, Other, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touching, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi/pseuds/chaoticlivi
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley touch each other differently than Heaven and Hell ever did.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 178





	Interwoven

Crowley and Aziraphale have a fraught history with touch.

For Crowley, physical touch used to be a threat, or a challenge, or at the very least a gesture of disrespect. Hell is crowded, demons bumping into each other every which way. At the same time, none of them would admit to wanting any sort of touch anyway because Hell has told them, rather violently, that they’re not supposed to. It would be a funny world if demons went around leaning on each other and holding hands, wouldn’t it? (It might give them _ideas_.)

On the other hand, corporal punishment is highly favored among management. Demons get torn apart just for someone else’s fun on a regular basis. Many of them have learned to enjoy watching it happen to other people, too, given that it’s one of the few perverse expressions of humor that aren’t punished.

For Aziraphale, physical touch used to be a tool of manipulation. Although Heaven considers it acceptable to take pleasure in the occasional friendly expression, like a handshake, touching and hugging and holding are still seen as largely “beneath” angels, gross things humans do during their short, vulgar lives. Touches are therefore kept brief. For Aziraphale, they usually involve Gabriel clapping a hand on his shoulder to forcefully end the conversation.

There is a little reminder in there: _I am stronger than you, and I am choosing to be nice because I am also a better angel than you. But you don’t have real choices when you talk to me._

During the past six thousand years, for both Crowley and Aziraphale, seeking touch on purpose has been an impermissible demonstration of vulnerability. And yet, they’ve been examples to each other, too.

Crowley’s touch, Aziraphale finds, is nothing like an Archangel’s. There is an exceptional sincerity to it. Whatever Aziraphale might have told himself must be true of demons, he has never felt remotely manipulated in the moments when Crowley made physical contact with him. Crowley keeps a respectful distance most of the time, offering only the occasional tap or nudge, perhaps a handshake. And yet, these rare touches are always imbued with genuine affection, a “You are fascinating” that is entirely novel to Aziraphale. Aziraphale has puzzled over how something as quick as a mere tap on the shoulder could convey all this, but it’s unmistakable.

Aziraphale had let himself touch Crowley, skin-to-skin, in 1941. He’d been so taken by the care Crowley had shown when he handed over the briefcase that Aziraphale had lightly caressed his hand, overcome with an all-consuming thrill of gratitude that sloughed off every single one of his tiresome defenses for a few moments. The whole incident had changed him, but the _touch_ had left him wanting more.

Alright, well, perhaps there _had_ been a moment when Crowley wasn’t so gentle. He had shoved Aziraphale a bit roughly against that wall in the convent, after all. But there was something in it - something so profoundly different from how it felt being shoved by Uriel. Crowley had been practically oozing desperation, _care_ ; Uriel had been steeped in a self-righteous contempt, which is far colder and more dangerous. Aziraphale had wanted Uriel to go away, but part of him had rather wanted to lean into Crowley.

Aziraphale’s touch, Crowley finds, is nothing like anything the demons inflict on each other. It’s almost absurdly gentle, attentive, and cautious. Whatever presumptuous hot air Aziraphale fills his words with, it does not translate into his touch. Aziraphale rarely makes physical contact with Crowley, but when he does, it brings with it a type of openness, Aziraphale’s full attention. In doing so, he makes himself vulnerable. Aziraphale’s touches always seem to say, “You are fascinating,” even when putting such a sentiment into words would be inadvisable.

It had been like that in 1941, when Aziraphale slid his fingers over Crowley’s for just a couple of seconds as he accepted the briefcase. Crowley had never been treated like the center of the world before, but there Aziraphale was, practically spinning around him, so wondrously charged was that touch. It was intense, overwhelming, but Crowley goes back to that moment often.

...Hmm. Perhaps there had been a moment when Aziraphale had touched Crowley with a bit of condescension: the horrid argument on the bandstand. He’d just barely brushed Crowley’s finger, pointing at him, but it had felt like being slammed against a wall for all the desperate, scrabbling frustration in it. Still, that tiniest of touches from Aziraphale had shut Crowley up, because it sent him reeling with how badly he wanted things to be different and, even more staggeringly, how badly Aziraphale also wanted things to be different.

* * *

MAY 2019

* * *

Now, things are different.

They had been close to each other, had held each other, on the night of Armageddon. But they’d both been overwhelmed and dissociating at the time, and it had felt like maybe things were supposed to go back to “normal” afterward. They hadn't touched so much since. In any case, Crowley really, really, _really_ wants to hold Aziraphale. Now and all the time.

Individual angels are supposed to devote themselves wholly to Heaven, which they think means the Greater Good. Individual demons are supposed to fight for Hell, which basically means fighting to keep their own arses safe. In Heaven and Hell, there are friendships of a sort, people who prefer each other’s company to others, but no overarching support for committed intimate partnerships between just a tiny number of people. Heaven and Hell, in their demands for groveling loyalty, would both hate that idea. Aziraphale and Crowley are pioneers in this way.

It’s all a bit confusing, and Crowley is going to start just by getting very close to Aziraphale.

Currently, they’re at a hotel, and Aziraphale has opted to read on the bed next to Crowley instead of in the chair that also came with the room. Every one of his ridiculous layers is still on except for his shoes; in contrast, Crowley is in silk pajamas. Crowley puts his hand down, just casually letting it lie there, and closes his eyes, as if to doze off. Only a few minutes pass before Aziraphale takes it.

Crowley tilts his hand up to actively hold Aziraphale’s and spends the next ten minutes gathering the courage to look over. When he does, Aziraphale notices and gives him a quick, nervous smile. “Alright?” Aziraphale asks.

“Good,” Crowley breathes. “Yeah. Yeah, good.”

Aziraphale puts the book on the nightstand, turning to Crowley, and lies on his side. He adds his other hand to their hold, so he’s cradling the one Crowley had offered earlier.

“I’ve thought for some time that I would like to embrace you again,” he says. “Would you mind trying it?”

Crowley shakes his head. “No. I mean yes. No, I wouldn’t mind.”

They shuffle over to each other for a moment of indecision, not sure where to put their limbs at first. But Aziraphale moves faster this time, to Crowley’s surprise, pulling him into an embrace like he’s been waiting for this for months (and maybe he has). Crouching Angel, Hidden...Snuggler? Anyway, they shift about so that they’re more or less on their sides, lying nose-to-nose. After the rush of tension wears off, Crowley is swept up in the closeness, the heat that pours off Aziraphale, his cologne, the tenderness of his arms and thoughtfulness in his eyes. They’re blue, but an obscure sort of blue. An Earthly blue.

Aziraphale studies Crowley’s face, too. “What do you think?” he asks.

Crowley opts for something other than words and holds tighter to Aziraphale. Aziraphale seems to take a cue from this, squeezing Crowley close as well, curling toward him, in fact, and it feels only natural for Crowley to bring his hand up to ruffle Aziraphale’s hair as he practically nestles into Crowley’s chest.

“My dear,” Aziraphale sighs in utter contentment.

For a long time, they lie like this. This gentle, gentle touch. Crowley has never been “cradled” in anything - even in the Beginning, he never had that sense of security, hadn’t known he was missing anything. He has it now, his angel at once holding him and seeking the comfort Crowley has always longed to give. Crowley finds he wants more - wants to feel Aziraphale bearing his entire self, wants to bear his own self in return.

“I’m going to make a suggestion,” says Crowley, “and if you don’t want to go along with it, we’ll pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Aziraphale chuffs. “What is it?”

“See, what if we just ditched our clothes?”

“Oh, but I’ve had these for--”

“Not permanently. Just...take them off. So they’re not, er, a distraction.”

Aziraphale seems to mull the idea over in his head.

Okay. If he argues again, Crowley will let it go. “Thought it might be sort of nice to do this without them,” he adds. “Just as an experiment. But like I said, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

“Oh, I didn’t say I didn’t want to do it. I was just thinking about how.”

Crowley nods. “Right. Right, then.”

“How _do_ you want to do this?” Aziraphale prompts.

“Miracles,” Crowley answers. “I really don’t want to move right now.”

Aziraphale pauses, almost as if he’s getting ready to scold Crowley for being lazy, and then...he snaps his fingers. Their clothes disappear, presumably folded up on the dresser (not that Crowley cares).

Crowley and Aziraphale are in each other’s arms, still, but naked now, gloriously skin-to-skin. The pleasant shock of warmth jolts Crowley in the best way. Aziraphale makes a little gasping sound, and he feels Crowley's chest and arms and back as if to ascertain that he's still here. He plants a kiss in the notch of Crowley's neck.

Never has Crowley known such completion.

“Lovely, but a little cold on my back,” Aziraphale complains eventually.

Crowley glances toward the foot of the bed, where a deep maroon blanket is all folded up, and uses his foot to heft it up toward the two of them.

* * *

Someday, Aziraphale thinks vaguely, he would be curious about making the effort to manifest genitalia. It would be a very Earthly thing to explore, after all. But today is not that day, and they are entirely without sexual parts, instead somewhat smooth and rounded between the legs.

Crowley’s lanky limbs are perfect for wrapping around Aziraphale, an armor of affection, and Aziraphale would like to believe his own round softness is perfect for relieving the pressure on Crowley’s pointy edges. Today is a day for skin on skin, each angel’s soothing body heat enveloping the other under this cover of Earth-made materials, not a thread of firmament in sight. Good.

Crowley is wearing a mild but fashionable cologne that plays nicely with his natural smokiness. He’s like a hearth-fire, or the smoke from a birthday candle. He is the absolute essence of sanctuary, the lantern that lights everything inside and the candle by which Aziraphale reads.

Aziraphale finds himself pressed against Crowley’s chest, talking to his heart. This is as good a time as he will find, Aziraphale suspects, to get them both on the same page.

“I have no intention of making you uncomfortable, but I do believe there are things which should be stated plainly,” he begins. Suppose Crowley doesn’t want to talk about feelings? He’s never particularly been a fan.

“Right.” Crowley swallows. Aziraphale watches his throat, bobbing like he’s gulped his anxiety down. “It’s fine. Say what you need.”

Aziraphale does not rush. He does find, however, that it’s easier to say this when they’re embracing so closely. Perhaps the symbolism of removing clothes in literature has rubbed off on him; it feels as if his defenses are already about as far down as they could be, and Crowley is still here with him. Surely he won’t be chased away now. “Ah. Alright then. I wanted to say...you must know that I love you dearly, Crowley. You knew, didn’t you?”

A breath, as if of...relief? “I think I knew.” Crowley squeezes, caressing Aziraphale’s hair. “I knew.”

“I don’t expect--”

“I have something to say, too,” Crowley interrupts, then hesitates.

“Oh?”

“Well.” He clears his throat. “Everything’s always been all topsy-turvy since the Fall, good is bad, bad is good. Makes it harder to say the truth, you know? Since the Beginning.” He sighs and waits; hoping to soothe him, Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s back, where his wings would join his body if he had them out. “Somewhere deep down, I think I always knew. But Armageddon made me admit it. I love you, angel. Wasn’t made for it. But here I am.”

Aziraphale sneaks a glance up at Crowley’s face. He’s peering back, watching for Aziraphale’s reaction. And indeed, there are still things in this world they don’t see eye-to-eye on. He doesn’t want to mess this up, accidentally hurt Crowley or come across the wrong way.

“I think,” Aziraphale says carefully, “you’re fantastically good at it.”

A huge smile breaks across Crowley’s face. Never has Aziraphale known such completion. He squeezes again, hoping that Crowley can feel exactly how cherished he is. Meanwhile, Crowley returns the favor, pressing a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head.

Unlike the fraught impositions of Heaven and Hell, the touch that Crowley and Aziraphale share contains the thrill of mutual consent. Theirs is the adoring deep-touch of full-body skin on skin, of scarlet sunrays coming to rest on evening clouds, of roots in the soil. And it is the hold of two clasped hands, of braids winding together, of the nautilus curling into its shell. Each holds and is held. They wind around each other, naked and happy, as interwoven as the Earthly fabric that surrounds them, as interwoven as the fabric of the universe itself.


End file.
